Chapter 8
EIGHT
GEMMA
A cool gush of salty winter air woke me up. My shimmering muslin curtains fluttered in the breeze. The balcony door was open, and the musky smell of cannabis drifted on the air.
He’d been here.
I quickly sat up and opened my nightstand.
Empty.
Fuck.
For years I’d had no problem getting drugs. Now no one would sell to me. If I did manage to get something, Grim would slide into my room and steal it.
I pushed my satin duvet off my body and went out to my balcony. It was iron cold outside, the air sharp and biting. Gauzy curtains whispered against my skin, and the faint hint of light illumined the horizon a gray purple.
A black streak of ash marred my balcony, the only evidence Grim had been there.
I stared down to the night-darkened beach, imagining my footprints in the sand, disappearing into the glimmering black waters.
It’s a beautiful day to die.
I smeared the ash with my finger, the pad turning black. Grim didn’t scare me. I was scared of myself.
I don’t know why I went into the ocean that day. I don’t know what was stopping me from walking back into it. Why do I want the salty water to fill up my lungs until I breathe nothing but burning, bitter cold? Why do I want to die?
But there was no why. It was just a feeling—a colorless, dark urge.
Still in my pajamas, I grabbed a puffy overcoat and went down to the beach. For one week in the summer, these beaches would be flooded with swans. Known as the Swan Swell, it was an anomaly unique to Crowne Point. Now, the swans had mostly migrated, but there was always one swan that remained.
“Hey, buddy.”
I sat on the sand, breaking off a piece of croissant I’d snagged from the kitchen to give him.
I called him my suicide swan. He—or she? How did you even tell?—was always there when I was fucked up. Swans were notorious assholes, but not this guy. This guy was always separate from the pack. I think it had something to do with its fucked-up wing.
The swan honked and took the offered piece of flaky pastry.
I pressed my cheek against my knee, watching the sun rise over the ocean, the sound of the waves crashing like shattered glass.
Nothing was ever in my control. Who I was, my personality, my likes and dislikes, were all chosen by the world. Love was controlled by my mother, and if I didn’t obey and act perfectly, I wasn’t loved.
Even my death wasn’t my choice. Grim inked my life on his chest, forcing me to live, stripping me of my last shred of control.
I stayed on the beach until the sun rose high into midmorning, then gave my swan the last piece of croissant. By the time I got back to the house, a flurry of people were hanging portraits and unwrapping antique china. Down the hall, more workers rushed in and out of my mother’s favorite room.
Shit.
The Sunroom Revival was today.
Not more than two seconds later, my mother appeared. “Where have you been?” She didn’t give me a chance to respond, dragging me off to the side. “We start in an hour. A prince who, by some miracle, expressed interest in you is coming.”
Princes stopped being cute when I was seven. Outside of Disney, they weren’t so charming. Pedophiles, rapists, fetishes that border on torture, all hidden by a shiny crown.
No, thanks.
I rubbed the back of my neck. “I forgot.”
She looked at me like I’d grown two heads. “Sometimes I think you’re as bad as your sister. Do you even want this, Gemma?”
I paused.
Do I want this?
I’d never really been allowed to ask myself that question.
As if sensing my hesitation, my mother asked, “What could be more important?”
Wasn’t this what I wanted? To marry someone who would put me back on the cover of magazines? To be Gemma Crowne, and have that mean something again.
To have control.
“To be a queen, you need a king, Gemma,” my mother said. “Otherwise you’re just a little girl playing dress-up.”
Hours later the sunset painted the sky in oranges and reds. I waited for my hair to set, makeup already done, and scrolled.
It didn’t take long to find someone talking shit about me. They loved to tag me. Someone had posted a zoomed-in version of two photos, side by side, for comparison. The second photo was a still from some video, distorted. Gemma: before and after, the caption read.
I glanced at the mirror.
Did I look like that?
I shook my head and read the comments.
She was hot before she started fucking with her face.
I saw Gemma Crowne in person and it made me realize she’s so empty. She’s just a character giving a performance.
Gemma was so much less annoying when she was engaged to Horace.
I used to stab safety pins in my leg to avoid scars. I stopped when even that started to blemish.
Now I guess I used this to cut. Social media.
“Finished!”
My girl, Olivia—or rather, she wasn’t my girl anymore. That was another thing Grayson had ended. We used to have personal maids and valets, but now no one person was responsible for a Crowne. Still, Olivia had been by my side the longest.
She stepped back, turning her attention to a dress hanging against my window. It was white, with black trim on the bodice and delicate black bows on the skirt. She held it out for me to step into.
The dress was fitted and flowed outward from my waist. It landed just above my ankles, the chiffon skirt giving an airy, effortless beauty.
Olivia held out black gloves, and I slid my arms into them, just above my elbow. The outfit was Parisian, with a little New York, like something out of Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
Today’s event was to celebrate the Sunroom Revival. In reality, it was an excuse to write off renovations my mother wanted.
The sunroom was second only to the hedge maze in my mother’s eyes.
It overlooked three miles of gardens, wintry skies, and the iron Atlantic Ocean.
My mother spent the majority of her days here drinking tea and eating biscuits.
Now she spoke with an older woman, gesturing out the window toward the garden.
Men old enough to be my grandfather flirted with me. Women who would dance on my grave came up with overly saccharine smiles. I think I talked. Laughed.
My eyes wandered across the orchestrated glamour. The harmonious plink of silver spoons on porcelain teacups, faces frozen with Botox and polite laughter that didn’t reach the eyes.
“Oh my God, Gemma? It’s been ages.”
I recognized the voice before I turned to meet her overly spray-tanned face—Trinity. We had gone to boarding school together. She had an uncanny ability to be present at any event that was leaked to the press.
“Oh my God, Trin. I had no idea you’d be here.”
We butterfly hugged.
“It was a last-minute thing,” she said.
“Isn’t it always?”
Silence settled. I stared out to the circular room, wishing this bitch would take a hint.
“Have you had a chance to speak with the prince yet?” Trinity asked.
“The prince?” I asked, and then a second later remembered what my mom had said. “Uh, no, I don’t even know what he looks like.”
My gaze drifted back to the room, bouncing from man to man, all in well-tailored suits and all with the same bloviated, arrogant, and self-important countenance.
“He’s over there.” She pointed toward the periphery of the sunroom, near a window overlooking the beach. “The only one not wearing a suit. Tall.”
I followed her finger to a man with salt-and-pepper hair, black jeans and sneakers, and a T-shirt.
I sucked in a breath.
I don’t give a shit what you put in your cunt. This is business.
That was the prince? The hot, scary older man from the club was also the same man my mother was doing cartwheels over to get me to marry?
He raised his glass to me with a smirk when he caught me staring.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Do you know him too?”
“Not quite.” I tilted my head to the side, arms folded, my champagne flute cold against my bicep. “What do you know about him?”
I was expecting inbreeding—Charles II of Spain. Instead I got forbidden, mysterious, and dangerous.
“Um…not much, actually. He’s from some small European province.”
The prince had turned back to his conversation, but I continued to study him.
The guys I’d seen packing heat at the club made sense now—bodyguards. But how and why was he connected to Grim?
“Do you want to take a selfie?” Trinity asked. “The lighting here is great.”
I’d rather deep-throat your dad’s dick.
“Oh my God, yes.”
Trinity snapped the selfie. When she finished, I looked back toward the prince.
“I’ll tag you!” she said.
Shoot me. “Can’t wait!”
I’d been under Grim’s thumb for five years—had been entwined for even longer—but I still didn’t know much more than the average person. What could he want with a prince?
I landed before the prince, and as I did, he raised a hand. Those around us dissipated.
He arched a brow. “Dangerous to be seen talking to you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Rumor is you’re a curse. Bodies tend to drop around you. Because once you see the Reaper’s girl, the Reaper soon follows.”
My smile faltered.
“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not the Reaper’s girl.” I took a sip of my champagne.
“I think we’re going in circles.” He laughed. “So, what’s the not-Reaper's girl doing talking to me?”
“Depends,” I said. “Why is a prince talking to the king of the Underworld?”